


Ours are the moments I play in the dark

by Sirenia



Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Character Study, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Major Character Injury, Recovery, look his dick doesn't make an appearance but its there in spirit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:27:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29513895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sirenia/pseuds/Sirenia
Summary: Eliot minus one monster, plus one stomach wound, lies in a hospital and dreams.
Relationships: Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 20
Kudos: 68





	Ours are the moments I play in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, so this is the first fic I've written since I was a teenager obsessed with MCR, take from that what you will. 
> 
> I think it's about time I contributed something to this incredible fandom which constantly inspires me and truly makes me feel less alone.
> 
> I love ya'll and I hope you enjoy this little fic exploring Eliot's past and his hopeful future, because in this house canon is dead and I give the gays everything they want. 
> 
> Title from supercut by Lorde

Eliot comes back to himself in waves. It doesn’t want to let him go; he can feel it. The Monster. Clutching to him like fishhooks. It hurts. It _hurts._ But he’s him again, he can feel it, his body. His broken body, he can’t move, his stomach, _fuck._ Someone is screaming. Shouting his name, Q? Bambi? The effort to get his eyes open may be the last thing he ever does, but he does and it’s Bambi, his Bambi.

He smiles, “When you ask so sweetly…” but it’s all he can manage before black, before nothingness, a weight at his side.

…

Eliot dreams.

…

He’s leaving Indiana. A one-way ticket clutched in his pocket, a tiny black case containing everything he owns at his side. He shivers in the cool morning air, waiting at the bus station with a bruise blooming over his left eye.

He’s never coming back here.

…

Everything is black. He can hear shouting, his lower body is numb, he can’t feel anything.

He’s so tired.

…

He’s naked, covered in body paint and tied up with rope. Usually this would be his cue to smirk. But staring into Margo’s wide eyes, eyes he has never seen worried before, he’s finding it hard to perform.

“El c’mon, I know this isn’t exactly our brand, but you need to spill bitch.” Margo says, although she’s valiantly trying not to cry so her pep talk lacks its usual punch.

Eliot rolls his eyes, Margo’s bonds had unspooled a few minutes ago and the clock was ticking ever closer to midnight. He swallowed, his throat suddenly raw and sore.

Blinking back any tears that want to make an appearance, Eliot looks at her, in all her glory, strong and capable and the only friend he’d had in a long, long time. If he couldn’t tell her the truth, if he couldn’t spill this secret, he’d lose it all. Magic would find him again he knew, it had never left him since Logan, but Margo, this place, if he were to ever have a home, maybe this could be it.

Eliot opened his mouth.

…

Is this what dying feels like? Weightless and numb. Shouldn’t there be light?

He’s sick of the dark.

…

He’s lying on the Brakebills sign soaking in the sun and magic, smoke curls from the cigarette dangling from his outstretched hand. He smiles into the next drag and imagines himself a large feline, a creature of leisure and repose. That’s who this Quentin Coldwater would meet. He squints across the Sea to spot the new plaything that should have arrived by now. Was he fashionably late or just an idiot?

He kept his gaze focused on the copse of trees which bordered the sea and smoked, legs long and languid. His prey stumbling out onto the lawn, floppy hair whipping across his face, a satchel swinging by his side. Ah, an idiot then.

Eliot fixed his pose, one leg outstretched, another folded up while he smoked in profile; first impressions were important. As the new boy drew closer, he took one last long drag before stubbing his smoke on the sign and giving him a slow once over, “Quentin Coldwater?” He drawled, descending from his perch.

The new boy looked up at him. Warm brown eyes, a furrowed brow, and wide plush lips, framed by windblown dark hair. Ah, a _cute_ idiot.

“Yes?” The new boy replied.

Still, best to keep up appearances, Eliot rolled his eyes, “You’re late.” And began walking quickly towards the exam hall, he could hear Quentin stumbling to catch up behind him. Quentin was short, he smiled to himself and sped up.

…

He can hear voices, lots of noise, the rattle of wheels on lino, a hand clutches his hard and then disappears.

…

He lays his head on Margo’s lap and sighs. She ignores him, too busy assessing the new crop of students making their home in the cottage. He lolls his head and sighs louder, really kicking up the drama. She rolls her eyes, “Yes dear idiot?”

Eliot pouts, “How cruel you are to a man in pain.”

She laughs at this and her long nails scritch through his curls, “Stop being a baby, just fuck the guy and get him out of your system.”

He sighs and stares at Quentin Coldwater, the source of his frustration, flailing his hands in the direction of the blonde with the massive tits, “He’s so straight.”

She raises an eyebrow, “Hasn’t stopped you before.”

He waves his hand, it was true, his reputation was well deserved. Even straight boys learned not to pass up a night in his bed, but Quentin. Quentin was different and he wasn’t entirely sure how. He watched him now from his position reclined in the window seat. Quentin sat with his knees folded underneath himself for some unholy reason, awkwardly making conversation with another bewildered looking newbie. He was cute, with his hand moving to echo whatever he was yammering on about and his long hair tucked behind his ears, eyes bright if nervous. Eliot smiled; he could happily watch him for the rest of the afternoon. And that was the problem.

He sighed again and brought the glass of scotch he’d been nursing to his lips, if he couldn’t fuck Quentin, then he could at least get drunk.

…

Pain. _Pain._ Fucking fuck his side was on fire and his eyes were burning even though they were closed and he can’t, he can’t open them.

He panics, he hears beeping and that hand clutching his let’s go again, shouting and the light fades, the pain fades to black.

…

Quentin called it the insomniac’s club. Eliot wondered if you could call two people drinking by a fire a club, but who was he to argue when he got to watch Quentin’s face in the firelight?

Quentin was drunk. He’d drank most of the bottle of red Eliot had procured from the decent collection, carefully hidden with wards of his own design, Todd could keep drinking the cheap stuff. Quentin had slid to the floor with a laugh and a sigh, the homework he’d been trying to complete at _3 am_ ( _c’mon Q_ ) abandoned on the coffee table and Eliot had joined him. As with most things about Quentin Coldwater, he was helpless to resist.

They sat staring into the fire crackling in the hearth. He swirled his own half full glass and sipped, letting the silence blanket them like a quilt, warm and comfortable. Eliot had never known comfort like this, other than with Margo, while they lay in bed giggling or sharing secrets. This peace he knew with Quentin, it was new.

Eliot turned to catch Quentin’s eye, but instead caught him sleeping. His head tucked into his shoulder, leaning back on the sofa, empty glass abandoned at his side. Eliot smiled and clicked his tongue, still a light weight huh, baby Q? Stretching out his own neck and shoulders, Eliot completed a few quick tuts, his telekinesis taking hold of the delicate glass stems and depositing them in the kitchen. He contemplated Quentin, the firelight painting him in shadow and light, warm and bright in the empty cottage. He sighed and stood, hands on hip, before scooping Q into his arms, who made no noise but a snuffle, and with the aid of a little magic, carried him to bed.

…

Eliot is sick of dreaming, of memories, he’s, he’s going to open his eyes. He is going to open his eyes. He is going to open his eyes. His eyes.

Your face and eyes, a voice calls in the dark and he falls again.

…

He snaps Mike’s neck and all he can hear is his father’s voice, _“Did you really think it would end another way?”_

…

If Eliot could sigh, he would.

…

They’re drinking wine again, but this time they’re both drunk.

Another fireplace in another world, with new versions of each other.

Quentin is, he’s sad. Not his most elegant description, but Eliot isn’t exactly feeling peachy right now either. The fire has started to die down and the room is steadily getting colder as a result, the joy of Fillory and a total lack of central heating. They’re on the floor again too. Eliot purses his lips and considers his glass of horrible plum wine, maybe there’s a version of them that aren’t immediately fucked by the world or magic, maybe there’s a timeline they end up in fucking Narnia or _fucking_ in Narnia _hahaha_. He swallows a large mouthful of wine and grimaces; he’d settle for some decent wine at this point honestly.

Quentin has settled with his head stretched back, resting on the cushioned seat behind him, his throat bared as he stares at the ceiling. Eliot thinks it’s unfair really, that amidst all this misery, he still manages to look so beautiful, to _be_ so beautiful.

“They do say never meet your heroes, or uh, your childhood fantasy lands I guess.” Quentin sighs, tipping his head forward and taking another swig of his wine.

Eliot watches him grimace and settle back against the sofa, staring into the dying embers.

“Fillory saved my life.” Eliot says without meaning to, and almost wishes he hadn’t when Quentin turns to look at him a wry look on his face.

“I think that’s my line.”

Despite himself, Eliot laughs, looking away from Quentin’s searching gaze and staring at the fireplace instead.

“After Mike, after everything, being a king, I don’t know. I don’t know if I’d still be here.” His voice carries off into a whisper as he watches the flames die down.

He’s broken from his reverie by Quentin’s hand reaching for his own and settling there. Eliot looks down at their hands and then up at Quentin whose face is unreadable, always when it matters, it’s like he becomes a closed book for Eliot.

“I’m glad you’re here El.” Quentin grips his hand and then relaxes his hold, a small smile at the edges of his lips. Eliot smiles back, helpless.

…

Eliot is getting used to this new waking dream. It’s not like the monster. Not like he’s been shoved somewhere out of sight and kept locked tight. No, he thinks maybe he’s healing? Or his body is.

In the meantime, he’s reliving his greatest hits.

…

“You missed a spot.” Eliot calls from his perch on the rickety ladder seat they’d found amongst the clutter of the cottage.

Quentin sighs, his face scrunching up into an adorable frown, “Where?”

Eliot flicks his wrist and uses a sliver of telekinesis to poke Quentin between the shoulder blades. Quentin turns, expression wry as he glares at Eliot and Eliot feels the frisson of heat in his stomach that he gets every time Quentin is focused on him and raises a single eyebrow. Quentin rolls his eyes and grumbles, “El c’mon we get this done and then we can…” He trails off blushing.

Eliot smirks beginning to descend from his wooden throne, sliding carefully from rung to rung until he’s stood in front of Quentin who has to tilt his head back to look at him.

“Then we can…?” Eliot asks tucking a stray lock of hair behind Quentin’s ear where it had fallen out of its braid.

Quentin scowls, cheeks still pink, “ _I_ can take a nap while you tidy up and think about what you’re missing out on.”

Eliot laughs and bends to kiss him on the nose which only makes him scowl more.

“Hmmm, okay honey.” he grins and backs away until he’s leaning on the ladder once more and feigns thoughtfulness, “ _Or.”_

Quentin is giving a great impression of remaining annoyed, his arms crossed and brow wrinkled, but the curiosity in his voice gives him away, “Or?”

Eliot smirks with the full knowledge that the web he’s woven has captured the tastiest morsel in all of Fillory.

“Well,” He says tapping his lip, “ _I_ was thinking we take a short interval to rest and recuperate your knees from all that bending and kneeling you’ve done today.”

Quentin rolled his eyes at this, still watching Eliot warily where he’s draped against the ladder.

Eliot smiles slow, keeping his eyes fixed on Q’s, “And I blow you so as to incentivise your admirable dedication to our unsolvable task.”

Quentin narrows his eyes and purses his lips, before letting out a put-upon sigh and snatching Eliot’s hand to drag him back to the cottage, laughing all the while.

…

It’s nice in this soupy blackness, almost comforting and he knows he needs to wake up. He _has to_ tell Q, he has to make everything right, but it’s just so comfortable and he’s so tired.

…

Quentin’s asleep and Teddy is a warm bundle between them. They both make little whistling sounds in their sleep, and Eliot is _happy_.

He’s happy. He doesn’t quite know what to do with that, the bubble of emotion that lives inside his chest and burns so hot sometimes, he’s sure it _should_ hurt. Historically it has, but it’s different here, in this world removed from earth and who he used to be. _Here_ he’s a father, a partner, a lover, and a multitude of other roles he never thought he’d get to fill. Before, he hadn’t counted on making it to thirty, sure he’d die in an explosion of sex, drugs, and magic. Now, listening to the Fillorian wind rustle through their little clearing, lying in bed with his family, it’s hard to remember that other life. 

He feels unbearably lucky. But he still misses Margo, can’t quite believe he hasn’t seen her smirk at him knowingly or fix those wide eyes on his own for nearly ten years. He wonders what she’d say to him about this life he’s built, surely something scathing about polycules and nuclear families, but with a grin, so he’d know she was happy for him. He hoped she was okay, but it was hard to envision a world where she wasn’t, his Bambi with fangs. He hoped she could forgive him, but he thinks she would understand, not being able to give this up.

He watches Quentin and Teddy sleep, curled around each other, and closes his eyes.

…

How long has he been sleeping? In this inky darkness that holds his body like water, like he’s floating somewhere, gently guided by a current holding his right hand.

…

He regrets it.

He regrets it as soon as he says it. As soon as tears begin to slip down Quentin’s cheeks and he snuffles, fumbling to wipe them away. He regrets it, but he knows it’s the right thing to do, he’s protecting him, he’s protecting them. The last thing Quentin needs is him and his particular brand of fucked up, all he’s ever done is hurt those around him, he can’t be trusted with Quentin and his fragile heart.

It hurts now, but it’s right, he’s not the relationship type outside of dream worlds that have never happened. Will never happen.

Eliot’s throat feels raw, peach juice drying sticky on his chin, the taste filling his senses. He sits on the cool stone and he thinks of another world, where he could pull Q into his arms and tell him, _everything will be alright._

…

The hand in his is a constant pulse of warmth, tugging him to shore.

…

“Quentin you are not staying locked up forever with that, that _thing_.” He spits, hands clenched at his sides. Eliot cannot remember a time when he was so angry. Staring at Quentin now, with that stubborn set to his face, he wants to shake him, to hold him, to beg him not to do this.

Quentin just glares at him, “And what other option do we have Eliot? What else is there to do?”

Eliot laughs almost hysterical, like its been ripped from his chest, raw and bloody, “Literally anything else Q! Can you not get it through that thick skull of yours that I won’t let you do this?”

Quentin’s eyes turn hard and furious, “And what right do you think you have to stop me Eliot?”

Eliot winces as Quentin practically spits his name.

“What gives you the impression that you have any say over what I do or don’t do? The last time I checked you couldn’t wait to get rid of me, ‘go set sail with another life partner’, well here I go El.”

Eliot swallows, throat clicking at Quentin’s narrowed eyes, tension clear in every line of his body, like he’s seconds from flying apart.

“That’s not-” Eliot barely whispers before Quentin interrupts, throwing his hands in the air.

“Not what El? Not true?” Quentin sighs, his shoulder’s slumping and tension bleeding from his body as he drags a hand down his face, “Just, just trust me okay? Trust that this is what I want? This way I can make everything okay.”

Before Eliot can reply, Quentin has walked away.

…

He can hear a voice reading, or speaking, someone warm by his side. If only he could just wake up, just wake up, wake up…

…

“If I ever get out of here Q, know that when I’m braver, it’s because I learned it from you.”

“Peaches and plums motherfucker”

Quentin’s face, weary, but lit with hope, “Eliot?”

…

Eliot wakes slowly. Unbearably slowly, coming back to himself in groggy waves, the palm in his hand a constant presence.

The first thing he is aware of is thirst. A terrible thirst, like he’d been on a particularly bad spiral the night before. His tongue feels thick and tacky in his mouth, but he’s grateful for even that sensation, anything other than the blank darkness he’d been floating in.

He’s lying down on scratchy sheets; he can feel the stiff cotton against his skin and a dull ache in his stomach. It seems he’s in one piece anyway, as far as he can tell all limbs are accounted for. The air smells faintly of bleach and the medicinal scent that lingers in hospitals, so that explains the bad bedding. Finally, his eyes unstick, and he blinks blearily at the ceiling tiles above him, grey and dull in the thin light cast by the blinded windows. Fuck, even his eyes feel dry, but as he blinks the faded ceiling into focus, he’s unable to ignore the weight of a hand in his own.

He turns his head, wincing at the stiffness in his shoulders and the sheer effort it takes to even move this much, the monster really had run his body into the ground. Still, he manages it and sat at his side, curled up in a position that cannot be comfortable is Quentin, fast asleep, his hand in Eliot’s own. Eliot doesn’t have much time to drink him in, Quentin, whole and alive and asleep and holding _his_ hand before Quentin make’s his own groggy return to wakefulness and promptly freezes at the sight of Eliot’s open eyes.

Now his eyes have had more time to adjust Eliot notes the dark bags hanging underneath Quentin’s own, the sunken quality of his cheeks and the scruff that has grown across his jaw. Before he can try to say something, anything really, Quentin’s eyes are filling with tears and the hand in his clenches tight as his voice cracks over Eliot’s name. Eliot tries to respond, but all that comes out is a dry croak thanks to his parched throat. Quentin releases Eliot’s hand and scrambles to get him a small cup of water with a tiny straw dangling at its lip and holds it to Eliot’s mouth. Gratefully he sips at the water and sighs with the relief of quenching his dry mouth.

Having drank his fill he lets his head fall back onto the pile of pillows behind him and smiles shakily at Quentin, who is still crying and with the little plastic cup discarded is now hovering at Eliot’s bedside, hands tucked into the sleeves of a black hoodie. Eliot clears his throat and finally manages to speak or croak, “Hello stranger.”

Quentin rolls his eyes at that, tears still slipping down his cheeks, “Hey.” He manages, voice rough.

Eliot grins, even though he can’t move because his body is quite literally beat up garbage right now, he feels incandescently happy. He’s alive, he’s alive and so is Quentin and no matter what happens next, he’s never going to leave him again.

“You look like shit cutie Q.” That chokes a laugh out of Quentin who hasn’t moved from his anxious hover.

“You’re one to talk Waugh.” And there it is, that sparkle, that bitchiness, his Q.

Eliot tries to laugh. Try is the operative word here, difficult to do when it feels like his entire stomach is now on fire. He groans in pain and Quentin brings his hands up to hover over Eliot, his dear face lined with panic and worry.

“Oh God Eliot, I’ll uh, I’ll get a nurse or someone, it’s pretty late or early, uh, but yeah I-” Quentin rambles.

Eliot shakes his head, panting with the effort to relax back into the pillows and hold himself still, he feels a couple of tears eke out at the edges of his eyes.

“No, no Q I’m fine, I’m fine, I – can we just talk or could you, could you hold my hand please?” Eliot manages to say, as Quentin stares at him, no longer fidgeting, but stock still.

Slowly Quentin nods and resumes his seat at Eliot’s side, feet tucked up underneath him and reaches for Eliot’s hand gently. He’s stopped crying but he can’t seem to look away from Eliot’s face. Eliot squeezes his hand.

Quentin huffs, “Sorry El, I, I can’t believe it’s really you, it’s uh, it’s been.” He pauses, considering his words carefully and finally settles on, “A long time.”

Eliot grimaces, “Yeah, how long has it been?”

Quentin blinks and runs his free hand through his hair, which is _short_ now and before he can answer Eliot’s first question he blurts out, “You got a haircut?”

Quentin chuckles, “Uh, yeah, for a while there I was a guy called Brian.” At Eliot’s puzzled expression he sighs and smiles weakly, “It doesn’t matter, wasn’t really my choice, but whatever.”

Eliot frowns as Quentin continues softly, “It’s been a few months El.”

A few _months_. That explains why Quentin looks so worn down and exhausted and _thin_. He’d been so busy trying to save Eliot, who had been taking care of Quentin?

“Fuck.” Eliot replies letting his head thud back onto his pillows, for once at a loss for words.

This startles a shaky laugh out of Quentin, “Yeah that sums it up pretty eloquently.”

Eliot turns his head to look at him, really look at him, his hoodie hanging off his thin frame, the pallor of his skin and the bone deep tiredness that seems to suffuse his entire body. “Have you had any sleep Q?”

Quentin rolls his eyes, “I’ve been a bit busy El.” And pointedly squeezes his hand.

Eliot sighs, “Yeah, have I said thank you yet? Because, thank you. Thank you for not giving up on me.”

Quentin’s eyes shine in the dim room, “Anytime, El.”

Eliot smiles, small and hopeful, which Quentin returns.

“Where is everyone else? Is Margo okay?” He asks, panic suddenly making his heart pound, Bambi, where was Bambi? He’d been so caught up in Quentin, he hadn’t even thought-

But before he can work himself into a more of a panic Quentin is there, rubbing his shoulder and shushing him, “Hey, El, hey calm down it’s okay, Margo is fine, she’s fine.”

Eliot focuses on the sensation of Quentin’s hand on his shoulder and tries to calm down, easing his breathing slowly, bit by bit. He closes his eyes and sighs, worn out and exhausted. He looks at Quentin whose face is pinched and worried, “Where is she?”

Quentin’s face smooths out with relief now Eliot is no longer hyper ventilating and brings both hands to cup Eliot’s at the side of the bed.

“She went back to the apartment to have a shower and get some sleep; we’ve sort of been taking it in turns to sit vigil at your bedside.” Q replies smiling ruefully, “She’ll be back soon, shit I should probably text or like call someone.”

He wipes a hand down his face and trains his eyes on Eliot’s own, “This still feels like a dream, I don’t know how to convince myself that you’re real. You’re here. Safe.”

Quentin swallows, his eyes shiny and red and it’s Eliot’s turn to soothe, “I’m real, I promise. I’m here Q, if I could hug you right now without my body collapsing, I would.”

Tears begin to slip down Q’s cheeks again and he lets out a forced laugh, “God, I’m such a mess El, I’m so glad you’re here.”

Eliot smiles, his own eyes stinging with tears, “Ditto.”

 _So am I honey,_ is what he wants to say, he want’s to cup Q’s face in his hands and tell him, sweetheart, I am so glad you’re here, that I woke up and it was you sat by my side. But possession aside, they have so much they need to talk about, they have so much between them still. He made a promise, that if he was going to be braver, it would be for Quentin, _because_ of Quentin. Staring at him now, his heart in his throat, possibly the most exhausted he has ever been, he doesn’t want to wait.

“Listen, Q, there’s something I need to tell you,” He says into the quiet of the room, nearly silent but for the beeping of the monitor at his bedside.

Quentin’s feature’s crease and he opens his mouth as if to speak, but Eliot shushes him, “No, please just, just let me say this okay? Then you can call Margo or run out of here or tell me to get some sleep, but you need to know-”

Eliot pauses, swallows, keeping his eyes fixed on a point above Q’s shoulder, “I’m sorry Q. I lied to you that day in the throne room.”

He can’t look at Quentin’s face and take in his reaction, “I lied, and I was a coward, I think I’ve been in love with you pretty much from the moment we first met. But like I said, I’m a coward and I’m fucked up Quentin, I fuck up everything I touch, Mike, Fillory, I didn’t want to add you to the list. So, I pushed you away and it’s the biggest regret of my life.”

He keeps going, unable to look Quentin in the eye, “That day in the park, when I broke through, the monster had me trapped in my own mind, all these memories. You and Margo were there.” He smiles, “These memory versions of you, kept me company, tried to help me escape and that day I did, I broke through by facing my worst memory, my deepest regret. I had to work through quite a few.”

He pauses and breathes deep, forcing himself to look at Quentin, whose face is carefully blank, lips parted.

“The worst thing I’ve ever done is turn you down. And even if that was my shot and I blew it to pieces and you don’t feel the same way, I need you to know that I love you Q. I love you and I was an idiot for ever denying it.”

Speech finished Eliot feels exhausted, his already heavy limbs feel like they’re filled with lead and Quentin is silent next to him, but he hasn’t let go of Eliot’s hand, which is good?

Before Eliot can say anything more, apologise or worse _cry_ , Quentin is in his arms, or rather he’s in Quentin’s who has wrapped himself around Eliot’s chest, head tucked in at the junction of his neck and shoulder. Eliot lays there stunned and feels tears slip down his own cheeks, managing to find the barest bit of energy to lift his now empty hand and bring it to Quentin’s shuddering back. They stay like that for a while, Q clutching him while he cries into Eliot’s neck and Eliot rubbing soothing circles into his back until he quiets and tilts his head back to look at Eliot’s own tear stained face.

“I’m really mad at you, you know that?” Quentin says, voice rough around the edges.

Eliot can’t look away from him, “I thought you might be.”

Quentin huffs, rolling his red rimmed eyes, “I’m going to be really mad at you when you can get out of this bed, but right now El, I’m just so glad that you’re here _. I missed you so much._ ”

Quentin’s eyes are boring into his own, filled with determination and _bravery_ , his Q, always so brave.

Eliot sniffs, “I missed you too and I’m sorry, I mean it Q, I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you.”

Q considers him, his arms hold him hovering just over Eliot’s injured body, “You’re an idiot.”

Eliot lets out a little hurt sound at this, but Q is already moving closer, “But you’re my idiot.”

And he’s being kissed. Gently and oh so tender, the softest brush of lips against his own, giving and soft. Quentin pulls away, eyes shining with hope? Happiness? Eliot can’t really tell through his own answering grin, eyes wet.

He opens his mouth to say something, anything really, but they’re interrupted by his hospital room door opening with a thwack and Margo calling, “Wakey, wakey Quentin, I swear to Ember’s dead ballsack that if you’re curled up like a pretzel again I’m dragging you to a massage therapist myself, what are you- El?” 

Quentin gingerly lifts himself away from Eliot and he sees her, hair pulled back into a messy French braid, dressed in jeans and a fluffy pink jumper underneath her peacoat, the most dressed down he’s seen her in years, but still gorgeous, still his Bambi. 

“Hey Bambi.” He smiles and she’s at his side hugging him in seconds just like Q before, but in her haste manages to jostle his stomach making him hiss with pain. She pulls away eyes wet, “Shit, sorry baby, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

She brings her hand to the side of his face, “You really had us worried there, El.”

Eliot leans into her touch and kisses her palm, “I could never leave my Bambi.”

She grins, teeth white and sharp, “There would have been hell to pay.”

Before he can reply she turns her attention to Quentin who had been hovering at her side, his face soft, but quickly becoming worried at Margo’s sharp glare. She punches him in the arm and he lets out a pained grunt, “Hey, Margo what the hell!”

She ignores him and points at Eliot, “I thought we had a pact Coldwater, he wakes up and you call me immediately!”

Quentin winces and glancing at Eliot over her shoulder replies with a shrug, “You’re right, I’m sorry, it’s just he woke up and I couldn’t quite believe it y’know?”

Margo immediately softens, as much a sucker for Quentin’s puppy dog eyes as he is, Eliot observes wryly.

“Yeah, yeah I get it Q, but remember there are two bitches on team Eliot.” She replies with a smirk.

“Did you just call me a bitch?” Quentin asks, amusement clear in his voice.

Margo just rolls her eyes and tugs him down to squeeze into the chair at Eliot’s bedside, “Yes, you’re our little bitch, now tell mama what you two were so busy doing that you couldn’t call me _immediately._ ”

Watching them bicker, Quentin offended and Margo smirking with self-satisfaction, Eliot grins and keeps his eyes open.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and drop me a comment if you liked it :3
> 
> Here's the playlist I listened to while writing this: open.spotify.com/playlist/5VPSjttHZzUxHdWNVmNSnq?si=OWvFdZftTB62JVCYieLv7A
> 
> I can be found on tumblr as canonicallyhugedick ;)


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